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When she woke up, it was after 10:00 p.m. She groaned as she rolled over and swung her legs off the bed.
“Oh, great, I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
She stood up and went to the window. It was pouring. She probably wouldn’t sleep tonight, but she could eat, and her belly was protesting the fact that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Grabbing a clean T-shirt and jeans from her bag, she dressed quickly and slipped her wallet in a fanny pack before she left.
Despite the rain, the smell of charcoal and cooking meat was heavy in the air. Her mouth watered as she made a dash across the parking lot and into the café.
“Ooh, honey, come in out of that rain,” the hostess said as Sonora dashed inside. “Are you by yourself?” she added.
Sonora nodded.
The hostess picked up a menu. “This way,” she said, and led the way across the floor to a booth in the back. “This okay?”
“Perfect,” Sonora said, and meant it. Being at the far end of the room with a clear view of the door was a good thing. The fact that she was close to the kitchen didn’t bother her. She wasn’t looking for ambiance, just food.
She ordered iced tea, salad and chicken alfredo, then opened a package of crackers and began nibbling on them while she waited for her food to arrive. Lightning flashed outside, momentarily lighting the parking lot. Lights flickered, then went out. A communal groan of dismay sounded throughout the seating area while cursing could be heard in the kitchen.
Sonora automatically felt for her fanny pack, making sure her wallet was in place. Before she could relax, there was the sound of falling furniture, then a woman’s shrill scream.
“Help! Help! Someone just stole my purse!”
Sonora was on her feet without thinking. She heard running footsteps coming toward her. The way she figured it, the only person running in the dark would be the perp.
She moved instinctively and heard, more than saw, him coming. What she did see was that the shadow coming toward her was well over six feet tall. Using one of her kickboxing moves, she caught the running man belly high. She heard him grunt, then heard him stagger into a table and some chairs. She spun on one foot and came back around with another kick that caught him in the chest and ended up on his chin.
He went down like a felled ox.
Lights flickered, then fully came on as power was restored.
The woman who’d been robbed was still screaming and crying.
The hostess who’d seated Sonora saw the man on the floor, then eyed the tall, dark woman she’d just put in the back of the room and pointed. “Lord have mercy, honey! Did you do that?”
“Call the cops,” Sonora said.
The man on the floor moaned and started to roll over.
Sonora put her foot in the middle of the man’s back and pushed. “Uh-uh,” she warned. “You stay right where you are, buddy, or I’ll snap your spine faster than you can blink.”
“Damn, lady. My belly hurts bad. I think you broke my ribs.” The man moaned.
Soon the squall of approaching sirens could be heard. The perp moaned again.
The police came in the door, followed by a pair of EMTs.
The hostess waved them over. “Here! He’s here!” she yelled.
Sonora quickly exited the café through the kitchen, looking wistfully at the food as she ran through. The last thing she needed was to call attention to herself, and she’d done that big time by stopping the perp. The police would have wanted to see her name and ID. Having them identify her as DEA was completely opposite to what she was trying to do—which was get lost.
She hunched her shoulders against the rain and walked out into the parking lot. Quickly she crossed the street to a pizza place on the corner.
“One more time,” she muttered as she hurried inside.
“Sit anywhere,” a waitress said as she hurried by with an order. “I’ll be right with you.”
This time, Sonora settled in at a booth near the front door and then leaned her head against the glass as she looked out into the night. She was alternating between sausage or mushroom pizza when another flash of lightning sent her back into the black hole that had become part of her mind.
* * *
The older Native American man was sitting at a table with his back to Sonora. She wanted to go around him and see what he was doing, but she found herself unable to move.
“Why am I here? What the hell do you want?” she yelled.
Either he didn’t hear her, or he was ignoring her.
The man stood up slowly, then walked away, revealing a small piece of wood and a pile of wood curls.
He was carving something, but whatever it was, it was little more than an outline in the wood. Her gaze slid from the wood to the man. He was shaking pills from a bottle into his hand. There was a strange expression on his face as he tossed them down the back of his throat and chased them with water.
He’s dying.
The moment Sonora thought it, she flinched. A deep sadness came over her. “What am I supposed to do?” she cried. “Why are you haunting me?”
* * *
“Hey, lady!”
Sonora jerked.
“What?”
“I asked you…what do you want?”
Sonora blinked. Traveling from insanity to the real world was confusing, but she was getting better at it. It didn’t take her but a moment to answer.
“A medium sausage-and-mushroom pizza and a large Pepsi.”
The waitress nodded and left Sonora on her own again, only this time, Sonora focused her interests on the people at the other tables as she waited for her food to arrive.
She was both frustrated and confused by these recurring hallucinations. Talking to a shrink was a possibility and probably wise, but she wouldn’t risk it. The first time the precinct got wind of an agent in “therapy,” that agent would wind up doing desk duty until pronounced fit for duty again. Sonora didn’t want that on her record, so she was relying on instinct to get her through this. She couldn’t help but feel as if she was seeing this man for a reason. Maybe if he was real, and maybe if she found him, she’d discover for herself what this all meant.
Then the waitress came, delivered the pizza, refilled Sonora’s drink and left her to dine alone. By the time she had finished eating and paid for her meal, the rain had stopped. Reflections from the streetlights were mirrored in the puddles as she crossed the street to get to her room.
She was wide-awake and itching to be on the move. Despite an old fear of the dark, she handled it better outside. When she thought about it, which was rarely, it always made sense. She’d gotten her fear of the dark from being locked in a closet, so if she wasn’t bound by four walls, the fear never quite manifested into a full-blown panic attack. Glad to be on the move again, she packed her bag quickly, dropped her room key off at the office and mounted up. Within the hour, she was gone.
* * *
Miguel Garcia had been in Phoenix less than six hours when he’d gotten his first good lead on Sonora Jordan’s whereabouts. He had a name and an address, only it wasn’t Sonora’s address. It belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Buddy Allen.
* * *
It was just after 10:00 p.m. when Buddy pulled into the driveway of his apartment building. It was the first time he’d been home since this morning when he’d left for work. With his mind on a shower and bed, he got off the elevator, carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of groceries. He set down the six-pack, then toed it into his apartment after he opened the door. The door locked as it swung shut. Buddy was halfway across the living room when it dawned on him that all the lights were on, but he distinctly remembered turning them off when he’d left.
The hair rose on the back of his arms. He set down the sack and the six-pack and stepped backward, intent on leaving the apartment to call the police.
Then a man walked out of the bedroom holding a gun. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and motioned for Buddy to sit down on the sofa.
Buddy measured the distance to the door against the gun and cursed silently. The man didn’t look like the kind to be making idle threats.
“Who the hell are you?” Buddy asked.
“My name is of no importance,” he said.
“Then what are you doing here?” Buddy countered.
“Looking for a friend of yours.”
“Who?” Buddy asked.
“Sonora Jordan.”
Buddy’s stomach rolled. Suddenly, it hit him how much danger he was in. Sonora didn’t deal with lightweights, and she’d been spooked enough to leave Phoenix. There was every possibility that he might not live to see another day.
“I don’t know where she is,” Buddy said.
The man frowned. “Wrong answer,” he said, and swung the butt of his gun up under Buddy’s chin.
Buddy dropped, then didn’t move.
* * *
DEA agent Gerald Mynton was pouring his second cup of coffee of the day when the phone rang. He set down his cup and reached across the desk to answer it. “Mynton.”
“Agent Mynton, I’m Detective Broyles with Phoenix Homicide.”
“Detective, what can I do for you?” Mynton asked.
“I’m not sure, but we’re working a murder and the name of one of your agents came up.”
Mynton frowned. “Who?”
“Sonora Jordan.”
Mynton sat down in his chair with a thump. “What about her?”
“Do you know a man by the name of Robert Allen…goes by the name of Buddy?”
“Not that I—Wait! Did you say Buddy Allen?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, hell,” Mynton said.
“Then you do know him?” Broyles asked.
“Not personally, but I do know that Agent Jordan used to date a Buddy Allen. Is he the one who’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“And you say it was murder?”
“Beat all to hell and back,” Broyles said. “Died in E.R. about two hours ago.”
“And you’re looking for Agent Jordan because?”
“Mr. Allen had a message for her. It was the last thing he said before he died. He said to tell her that ‘he didn’t tell.’ Do you know what that means?”
Mynton felt sick. “Maybe. Do you have any leads?”
Broyles shuffled his notes.
“Uh…here’s what we know so far. Around two in the morning, a neighbor was coming home when she saw a stranger get out of the elevator and leave the building. She said he had blood on the front of his clothes. She got into her apartment and went to bed. But she said she couldn’t sleep because she kept hearing an intermittent thump from the apartment above her. She knew it belonged to Buddy Allen, and said it wasn’t like him to make noise of any kind, so she called the super. He went up and checked…found Mr. Allen in a pool of blood and called an ambulance. When he died, we were called in. After questioning the other occupants of the building, we’re leaning toward the theory that the man the neighbor saw might be our man.”
“Got a name?” Mynton asked.
“No, just a description.”
“Was he Latino?”
There was a long moment of silence, then Broyles spoke. “Yes, and I want to know how you know that.”
“We got word a few days ago that there was a hit out on Agent Jordan.” Mynton sighed. “God…we never thought about warning any of her friends. She’s going to be sick about this.”
“That’s all fine, but I want to know about the Latino.”
“Of course,” Mynton said. “I can’t guarantee that the man who killed Allen is the one who’s after Sonora Jordan, but just in case…you might be looking for a man named Miguel Garcia, or one of his hired goons.”
“We would like to talk to Ms. Jordan.”
“Yeah, so would I, but she’s gone,” Mynton said.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“We knew Garcia was after her. I told her to get lost for a while, but I haven’t heard anything from her since she left.”
“How long ago was that?”
